


To Have, To Hold (We Came With Our Eyes Open)

by creepy_crawly



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Fantastic Sexism, Genderfluid, Historical Fantasy, Intersex, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Royalty, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_crawly/pseuds/creepy_crawly
Summary: He is not the first person to be given as a hostage-bride, to seal a treaty with his body. He may, however, be the most fortunate.(Zitao marries Junmyeon to help stop a war. Luhan and Minseok are determined to ensure it succeeds--and that all parties survive.)





	1. Chapter One

"Your best chance," the old auntie said, pinning one long lock out of his face, "is to get with child, and do it fast. You understand me?"

 "Yes, auntie," Zitao said politely, sitting impeccably still beneath the woman's attentions, even as his familiar, Tavi, played at his feet. He _knew_ everything she was telling him already, had learnt it at a young age, just as she undoubtedly had, but… Well. Her recitations of the familiar lessons were comfort, one hostage-bride to another, on the eve of his hostage-making. Doubtless, someone had done this for her, decades ago when her marriage had been used to stop warring in the clans. And so she passed that wisdom on to him, the only thing she could do now to protect him.

 Not that he didn't think she'd already gone to war for him. No, he knew the auntie in charge of the mage-children too well to think she hadn't fought tooth and nail to change his fate. She was protective of them, after all. She always had, even from the first, when he had been delivered into her keeping by the same soldiers who'd given the last of his clan mercy. He'd still been wearing their blood.

 She had whisked him off to the baths that night, Tavi a limp line of fur in his hands, and helped him to mourn what little of his family he had known, even as she folded him into her little court. Whichever adviser had set her up as head of the mage-nursery had been far smarter than the lord who had wed her for duty and then put her aside; even as a child, Zitao had known that. After all, she had been the one to teach them about what being one of the Great Lord's little witchborn magelings meant, above and beyond  whatever magics they called to their command. She had taught them about being war-brides, and the duties entailed therein, and the importance of ensuring that it was _your_ clan who won this little cold war.

 The woman's hands, thin and light with age, settled gently on his shoulders. "Oh, my little Zitao," she sighed. "They wouldn't have done it like this, back in Sooman's time."

 He raised an eyebrow at her in the mirror. "Auntie…"

 "Oh, hush, you, I know I was wed back then, you wretch," she snorted, tapping his shoulder. "But to wed one with no family to stand for them? And to a foreign nation?" She shook her head. "It's not done, little one. Except," she sighed, "that it is done, now, and you’re off to some barbarous place, I've no doubt."

 Zitao swallowed his smile. "Auntie, they have accepted a bride to end hostilities. How barbarous can they be?"

 She clucked at him. "Just you wait," she warned. "They probably don't believe in bathing. And where will you be, then, hm?"

 "A lot more fragrant than I am now?"

 Baekhyun, one of the war-mages who would be travelling with Zitao and a longtime friend from their years in the nursery, coughed gently into his fist. "Tao, she's gonna-"

 Sure enough, the old woman caught his ear between her fingers, just between two sets of rings, and pinched, _hard_.

 

\---

 

"Well, this is some lovely weather for travelling in," Sehun groused, looking out across the courtyard from the safety of the Suho's rooms. "Are you sure we can't wait until the rain has stopped? Or at least, I don't know, become rain? Not a torrential downpour?"

Junmyeon cast his younger brother a look, even as Luhan, his manservant, snickered and yanked on his hair. It was difficult enough to get it to stay in the ornate topknot his rank now required; doing so in this kind of humidity required the kind of impossible magic that only incredibly experienced bodyservants had ever mastered, or so it seemed. "Sehun, you know--ouch, Luhan, I do want some hair when I meet our latest guest--that this kid's got to be terrified. I'm not making it worse by making it seem that we're going to break the détente at the last second."

Sehun snorted. "Some détente. 'Here, have a changeling and stop killing us!'"

"They were killing our men in equal number," Luhan replied, an odd edge in his voice as he set aside the combs he had been using on Junmyeon's hair. He carefully lifted the glass-and-gold cage that went atop the topknot, settling it just so before thrusting long pins in to hold it in place--and to serve as weapons, should the Suho need them. "And some cultures hold the witchborn in far more respect than this one." He carefully failed to meet either of the men's eyes as he spoke.

"Luhan, you know I don't mean--"

"My lord, you and your family have always treated my husband and I with the greatest of kindnesses," Luhan continued, still not looking at either of them. "Though I would never think to ask more than what has already been graciously given to me, I do know what the child faces, and know that those same kindnesses will be extended to another in my…fragile circumstances." His piece said, he bowed to Sehun, then knelt in obeisance to Junmyeon, murmuring, "Suho," and withdrew from the room.

"He's pissed," Junmyeon said, voice dry.

Sehun scowled at him. "Oddly, I noticed." Then, still scowling, he raised a hand and rubbed his forehead. "I…I forgot that he's. You know."

"Witchborn?" Junmyeon asked, rising to his feet in a rustle of thick robes. "A refugee? Married to a general who has absolutely no concept of leading from safety?"

"He chose to marry Minseok," Sehun protested. "And you know how much of a ruckus that caused, him being foreign and all. And most people didn't even know until then that he was…" Wordless, he waved a hand in the general direction of his own lower body.

" _Think_ ," Junmyeon urged his brother, flicking him none-too-gently on the forehead. "He came to this country with all that remained of his entire family. All two of them, Sehun. What do you think would have become of him, if anyone had known that he was witchborn? And yes, he _chose_ to marry Minseok, but if you think that decision was easy for either of them, you've been spending far too much time in your library and not enough time around those gods-forsaken nobles who direct the War Council."

Mulish, Sehun glared at him. "I shouldn't have said changeling, I get it," he said. "It's rude. But still. I don't like this. Boa doesn't like this."

Junmyeon snorted. “Our beloved eldest sister doesn’t have to like this,” he said, “but, seeing as she dodged her way out of the line of inheritance, she also doesn’t get to complain too loudly about what I do to keep it intact. After all, we all recall what happened last time the throne found itself untended.”

Sehun shivered, making a warding sign at the memory to keep the evil at bay. “But you’re properly acknowledged, now,” he said, his eyes flitting to the glittering globe atop Junmyeon’s hair. “And really, who would have thought that you not having been actually formally presented to the family shrine would count as there being no heir, at least to the spirits? Boa and I were still here.”

“Boa was already out of the line of succession by the Black Night,” Junmyeon reminded his little brother. “As for you...I suspect it is because our father was only a side-trail in the blood. They inherited him when they needed the line to keep going, but because we were born before he was acknowledged as a full member of the royal family, we never got...caught in, as it were.”

Sehun frowned, but said nothing.

Frankly, that suited Junmyeon just fine. He had no desire to think any longer on the Black Night, nor the events surrounding it. Not with a new marriage approaching. He was invested as the protector, the Suho, of an entire nation. He would not bring the evils of the past into his new marriage bed, or into the treaty it was forging.

 

\---

 

Baekhyun watched nervously as Zitao emerged from the small wooden carriage. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to the war-bride, his familiar at his heels. “After all, no one will know if…”

Zitao shook his head. “No, gege,” he murmured. “They’re trusting me to do this right, so I will. Besides.” He smiled at his old friend. “It’s no real hardship, bidding farewell to the demons.”

Baekhyun shook his head, but obediently held out a hand to help his friend down. The ground was damp with rain that had passed, earlier, but Zitao seemed to be ignoring the way wet leaves and mud were clinging to the edges of his robes. Instead, he kept his eyes focused forward, on the squat, angry demon statue hidden just beyond the curve of the road.

It was tradition, that much was true, for anyone ‘claimed’ by the Great Lord’s household to bid farewell to all of the ruling demons as they left the clan, be it for death, marriage, or fleeing from war. That Zitao did it--bowed before the demon statues, thanked them for their guidance over him, asked that they not follow him into this new place, but instead kept their look out over the clan he was leaving--said a lot for his character. As a witchborn mageling, he’d never been more than a convenient pawn to the Great Lord and his retainers,  but here he was, giving the family demons a respect that most nobles would have only half-assed, at best.

But then, wasn’t that why Baekhyun had been drawn to him in the first place, back when they’d both been tiny little things in the mage-nursery? Sure, even that young, they’d both known that they were headed in different directions--Baekhyun to be a guard-mage, at the very least, while witchborn Zitao’s values lay...elsewhere. That hadn’t kept them from making friends, though, or from learning small skills from one another. Baekhyun had been grateful to have Zitao as a sparring partner when he’d been preparing for the mage trials; having someone who knew him and his skillsets inside and out meant that he had to fight that much harder to win.

And Zitao’s knowledge of what was going on around them in the Great Lord’s estate, well. It had its advantages, and those tended to be the kinds of advantages that no wise soldier passed up. And Baekhyun had the comfort of knowing that his childhood friend was as well-protected from the guards surrounding him as he was from whatever they were meant to be protecting him from. It had been easy enough to “lose” one of the enchanted ever-sharp daggers given to him in training, and while the weapons-master had certainly taken it out of his hide, his training masters, sharp-eyed and clever survivors of the mage-nursery themselves, had said nothing, but assigned him to guarding the court ladies’ morning defense practices.

If some of Zitao’s defensive forms were more effeminate than those seen among the guard when they practised, well, who would tell? Besides, given the many thick layers he was required to wear, both by custom and by station, the forms designed for fancily-clad court ladies were likely far more likely to see him doing damage to an attacker, and not himself.

Zitao knelt before the statue, lighting incense with a quick pinch of his fingers. While his talents with magic were definitely more defensive than offensive, and fire spells would never be his first choice, he was fairly good with some of the more domestic applications of such spells. It certainly made travelling easier.

Brushing those thoughts away, he tucked the smoking incense in the notch below the statue’s wide belly, closing his eyes. “Little Father,” he greeted, inclining his head to the statue. “The last son of the Clan Ye-Cao, sheltered now under the auspices of the Great Lord, comes before you with thanks on his lips.” He bowed quickly. “Thank you for your protection, Little Father, for the food with which you have nourished soul and body.” He bowed again. “I go now from your protection, into a foreign land, far from my home. Little Father, do not concern yourself with the affairs of this straying one; guard the home I am leaving and the clan that stays behind.” This time, he prostrated himself in front of the statue.

He waited for a few moments, and then sat back up. Opening his eyes but keeping his head bowed, Zitao rose carefully to his feet. He kept his hands folded in front of him as he backed up, much as he would have in front of the Great Lord or one of his higher nobles. He did not lift his head until his heels hit the slope of the trail once more.

Seeing the look Baekhyun was giving him, Zitao grinned. “There’s a reason one of us is a war-mage, and the other is being used as a political bargaining piece,” he pointed out.

Baekhyun snorted. “Come on,” he said, gesturing for Zitao to step in front of him, even as his fierce familiar led the way, her fangs bared. “You’ve always been more graceful than me, Tao. Even when we were young.”

“Especially when we were young, you mean,” Zitao said, thinking of how clumsy Baekhyun had been when they were still young enough to both live in the nursery. Norda’s awkwardly long tail had been a real problem, then. Thankfully, guard training and puberty seemed to have taken care of the worst of the clumsiness. Baekhyun was far more sure on his feet these days, and far less likely to trip over his familiar’s close-following bulk. He was a fierce, elegant fighter, a real compliment to his training and talents. While he fumed over the fact that anyone would just throw Baekhyun and his talent away like that, Zitao was glad that his friend had been appointed as one of his guards and sacrificed for this treaty with him. It was comforting to have a familiar, friendly face going into exile with him.

 _And_ Baekhyun, being experienced with his own predatory familiar, wasn’t afraid of Tavi, which was more than could be said for most of the servants travelling with them as far as the border. Indeed, when the rusty-furred creature flung herself from the door of the carriage as soon as Zitao opened it, Baekhyun just laughed, while the footman flinched back. Zitao ignored both of them, reaching up to stabilise Tavi as she wrapped her ringed tail around his throat, settling herself comfortably against his neck like a living scarf. She chittered at him, scolding, even as her cool nose brushed just behind his ear.

“I know, I know, Tavi,” he soothed, stroking along her back with two fingers. “But that’s the last of them. I’ll stay in here, dry, with you for the rest of the way to the border.” He shot a grin at Baekhyun, even as the other man helped him up into the carriage. “Just think, Tavi. You could be stuck out in the damp with Norda.”

Norda huffed, her long tail flicking rapidly. She reared up on her hind legs, snagged Baekhyun’s belt, and leapt to his shoulder. He swayed with her weight--she was no longer as small as she had been when they were children--but let her settle herself. Not that she stayed on her human perch for long; she hovered just long enough to get a good look at Zitao, then launched herself for the top of the carriage. Her tail curled around one of the decorative finials on top, which she clearly intended to use as an anchor.

Baekhyun, too, ignored Zitao’s comment. “Get comfortable, Tao,” he advised. “There’s another ten miles to go, and then we hit the border. We’ll meet the Suho and his delegation there.” He paused. “It shouldn’t be too long, unless...do you want…?”

Zitao shook his head, making his jewels chime. “No,” he said, though his voice didn’t sound as sure as he hoped his face looked. “No, let’s just...let’s go. Greet the Suho’s delegation, and. And get to our new home. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun agreed, softly. “That is, of course, Mage.” He bowed, then closed the door of the carriage.

In the dark interior, hidden from anyone but Tavi’s sight, Zitao shivered. That was the first time his friend had called him by his formal title.

 

\---

 

Junmyeon watched Luhan playing with his small familiar, the manservant’s fingers running nervously through the small rodent’s sandy fur even as Bao darted between his hands, squeaking brightly. It was a nervous habit, one that had only become more obvious since Luhan’s marriage. Not that that was really a surprise, actually, Junmyeon thought. After all, before his marriage, before revealing that he was witchborn, Luhan couldn’t dare let people think that Bao was anything but a family pet. Only those touched by magic--the witchborn and mages--had familiars, and one would have doomed him to life as a prostitute, while the other would have seen him denied refuge and, in all likelihood, executed as a threat to the country.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he heard himself saying, his eyes rising to Luhan’s pale face.

Luhan blinked, taken aback, and then smiled, gentle and kind. “I’m glad to be here, Suho,” he said, bowing his head. One hand folded around Bao’s fat body, tucking the gundi against his lap for the moment. “It is an honor to accompany you to your marriage.”

“No, I mean…” Junmyeon sighed. Fighting the urge to reach up and scrub at his face--Luhan would _not_ enjoy seeing his hard work ruined--he tried again. “I mean, I’m glad you made it into the kingdom safely. And that you met Minseok. And married him. You’re...you’re a very dear friend, Luhan. And, yes, I am also glad you are travelling with me.” He laughed, a little uncomfortable. “And it’s only you and me in here. You can call me by my name. In fact, I ask you to.”

“Whatever my Suho commands,” Luhan answered, his eyes dancing. “Though...dare I ask what’s brought on this train of thought?”

Junmyeon leant back. “Bao,” he answered, nodding towards the still-squeaking familiar. “I...I was just thinking. It must have been hard, coming into the kingdom. Pretending to not be...well. You. And pretending that Bao wasn’t…”

Luhan shrugged, an elegant flow of shoulder and head. “It was, and it wasn’t,” he said. His voice was calm and quiet, as if he were trying to soothe Junmyeon the way a mother might her child. “I was scared, yes, but that made it easier to hide Bao. And he knows why I did it, and gave me the courage I needed. Besides,” he smiled, “if I hadn’t have come, I never would have met Minseok. And I, too, am glad I married him.”

He had to smile at that. “Good. I’d hate to think I gave permission for my favourite General to marry, and neither party was happy for it.”

“Your favourite, really?” Luhan asked. “My, my, I’ll have to tell him that. A lowly military man will be flattered to know that one so great as his Suho knows of him.”

Junmyeon shot his manservant a look. “That would work better if Minseok hadn’t once pushed me into a lake because I called him a girl,” he said. “And if he didn’t remind me of that at least twice a month.”

Luhan laughed. “Perks of being the prince’s companion, I imagine,” he replied. “Really, though, Junmyeon. What’s got you so nervous? Besides your impending marriage, the attached treaty, and the fact that your little brother is in a snit and that alone is enough to have sane men running for the hills.”

“What if he hates me?”

As soon as the words left his lips, Junmyeon wished he could take them back, that he could unsay what had been said. What did it matter if his war-bride hated him? In fact, chances were good that he would, and that was his right. This marriage wasn’t for love, wasn’t for politics, wasn’t even for money. It was simply to seal a treaty, to give one party a hostage and the other an easy in for assassination. Even his marriage to Seondeok hadn’t been as cold as this one would be, though it had certainly been distant.

Luhan’s face softened, though, and the man that Junmyeon had come to consider something of an elder brother shone through. “He probably will,” he said, blunt as stone, “at least at first. And can you blame him? He’s being sold in marriage, Junmyeon, without any of the advantages you have.”

“I don’t blame him,” Junmyeon said morosely. “That’s the problem.”

“Then here’s a solution: be yourself.” Luhan set Bao down beside himself, then leant forward, elbows on his knees. “Junmyeon. I came into your service fully prepared to hate you, because you are the head of a kingdom that considers people like me good only for what lies between our legs. I had watched my husband, the man I love, who had been your childhood friend, prostrate himself in your presence to ask permission to get married, to have sex with me. I literally had to have your permission to potentially become pregnant--no, let me finish.” He raised a finger when Junmyeon opened his mouth to speak. “That first morning, I came to you as a man humiliated. Humiliated and _terrified_.

“But you know what? You are _not_ the nightmare I had prepared myself for. You’re a nice person, even before you dig under all those layers of court manners and noble birth. Minseok told me stories of the boy he grew up with, the young man he trained with, the man he fights for. Your sister put the fear of several elder gods in me, and your little brother introduced me to the concept of sheer terror. Also some rather intense frustration. But you? You were friendly and warm and kind, and you treated me like a person. Not like a refugee, not like a witchborn, not even like a servant. Like a person, a peer, a potential friend. And now I consider you a friend, and I hope that you consider me the same.”

“I do,” Junmyeon murmured.

“So if you’re afraid that this person--this Zitao--is going to hate you, don’t be. Be ready for him to, and accept it if he does, at first. But don’t let things end there, yeah? Be yourself. Remember that he’s at least as scared as you are, maybe more so. And, for the love of all the gods, be gentle with him. He’s a war-bride raised in a mage-creche; he’s probably been watched like a hawk his whole life.”

Junmyeon looked at Luhan, confused.

The older man sighed. “Sex, Junmyeon. He’s never had sex. You’ve taken a woman’s maidenhood before, right?”

“We might have been young, but I was required to consummate my previous marriage,” Junmyeon replied, arch.

Luhan shuddered. “Remind me to be glad I am _not_ noble and therefore was not subject to the awkward fumblings of a fellow early-teen in my marriage bed,” he said, the words as dry as dust. “Well, then, reminder: unless you are careful and kind, the first few times are uncomfortable for women and the witchborn. It doesn’t have to hurt--in fact, it really shouldn’t, if you’re taking your time and being gentle--but then, this is a political marriage. I imagine they’ll demand, uh, proof of the consummation? And of his maidenhead?”

Junmyeon nodded stiffly. “Yes,” he gritted out.

“Lovely. Well, we’ve got a few more miles, and I have little shame and a lot of sympathy for this child, so let me introduce you to a concept I like to call foreplay, and another concept I like to call, ‘as long as there’s blood on the sheet they’ve got no proof where it came from.’”

Taken aback, Junmyeon could only stare at his manservant.

Luhan grinned, sharkish and dark.

“Suddenly, I have the feeling that I am about to know far more about your marriage to Minseok than I ever wanted to know about his sex life,” Junmyeon admitted. Heaving a sigh, he leant forward towards the other man. “Alright. How do I go about not making this the worst night of this kid’s life?”


	2. Chapter 2

The two caravans met at the border, flags flying and pennants high despite the cloudy weather. As per ceremonial protocol, the carriages of the two spouses-to-be stayed on their own sides of the borders, while the others spread out in a large ring. Guards from both contingents were introduced and split duties, though the two permanent guards assigned to Zitao, Baekhyun and Amber, were introduced to their counterparts for guarding the Suho and paired off thusly. While the priests conferred to make sure that all of their last second preparations were ready--so that demons and ghosts and gods on all sides would be appropriately appeased-- Luhan slipped from Junmyeon’s carriage and stepped carefully down the length of the bridge across the border river.

There was an older woman guarding the Consort-to-be’s carriage, her hand closed around a spear and her eyes sharp. She slanted a brow at him as he approached. 

Luhan smiled winsomely at her. Folding his hands together, he bowed. “I greet you,” he said, still bowed, and then straightened. “I am the Suho’s manservant, and, importantly,” he tapped his collarbone twice, encouraging Bao to scurry out from where he was hiding in the high shoulder of Luhan’s overrobe, his little whiskered face appearing at the silver collar, “I am witchborn. And already married.”

The woman nodded, though her face didn’t soften very much. “I see. You are here to…?”

“To greet the new Consort, meet my new charge,” Luhan said. He scooped up Bao, letting him curl up in his palm, a sand-coloured ball of fur. His thumb stroked over his familiar’s back. “And, a little bit, to help allay what I’m sure are some very real fears.”  He paused for a moment, and then said, quietly, “Look. I just want to do him the same favour my mother-in-law did for me, the night before my wedding. A similar one, I am sure, to the one your own mother or sister did for you, when you married.” He nodded to the red stripe on her sleeve.

“Already married, huh?” Her face wasn’t as hard, now. She was starting to look more amused than anything. 

Luhan nodded. “For three years, most of them happy.”

The guard snorted and shook her head. “Alright. Are you carrying any weaponry?”

Shaking his head, Luhan spread his arms wide. “I’m the Suho’s manservant,” he repeated. “I’ve been riding in his carriage; when two of such disparate social statuses are confined, it is the Suho who carries the weapons.”

“I’d heard that,” the guard said, “but I hadn’t believed it. Baekhyun and Amber are going to have a hell of time figuring out guard patterns.” She shook her head. “Okay, come on. I’ll announce you.” Turning, she knocked sharply on the door of the carriage.

A bright face appeared in the window almost immediately, long-fingered hands drawing back the curtain. A small, rusty-red muzzle jutted into view, too.

“Mage,” the guard said, her tone stern and her voice hard. “I present to you Luhan of the Outer Kingdom, manservant to His Royal Highness, Suho of the Outer Kingdom and Lesser Colonies, Kim Junmyeon.”

Dark eyes darted to Luhan’s face. The boy seemed to pale, then nod. “We...we will greet him,” he said, words muffled by the closed carriage door.

The guard nodded. Stepping forward, she opened the door to the carriage. She extended an arm, and held still as the boy grasped her forearm and used it to balance on his way down. Though she didn’t flinch away from the bounding creature behind him, her face did go tighter. When both man and familiar were on the ground, she turned to him. “Mage, there is a small tea tent assembled. We shall retire there?”

“Of course,” he said, inclining his head. The plethora of pins and jewels decorating his hair chimed and sang with the motion, the tiny charms dancing.

Luhan wondered how many of them were sharp and how many contained tiny spells for self-protection. He was pretty sure he could see at least two for happiness and luck, clumsily folded but earnestly glowing, towards the back of the young man’s head. Gifts from a friend, or another member of the mage-harem that the Clanland’s Great Lord supposedly kept?

“Please,” the young man spoke, drawing Luhan from his musings. He gestured with an elegant sweep of an arm to the small poufs arranged around a low table, tea service already set out. “I, Zitao of Clan Ye-Cao, invite you in, Luhan of the Outer Kingdom.”

Luhan treated him to a small smile. “Please, just Luhan is fine, Mage,” he told the other man. “Or, if you must, I hear from your name that you are of the Grass Clans?”

Zitao hesitated, then nodded.

“Then I am Luhan, third son of Clan Man-Pao-Shui,” Luhan said, folding his arms inside the sleeves of his robe and bowing again, this time as a lesser son of a greater clan to the higher-ranked member of a small clan.

The smile that crossed Zitao’s face was like dawn breaking over the hills. As if a great weight had been cast off, the young man sat easily on one of the poufs, quickly waving Luhan into another. “You’re also of the Clans?” he asked, excited. At his feet, his familiar ran in quick, dizzying loops.

Luhan seated himself carefully, lowering his hands to his lap and, with them, Bao. “I am,” he said, “though, many years past. My sisters and I fled when Gao-Shan began burning the tents and slaughtering the flocks. We have lived in the Outer Kingdom ever since.”

“Is...is it so different?” Zitao asked, reaching for the tea service.

“It is, and it isn’t,” Luhan told him, the corner of his mouth quirking. “People are people, no matter where you go, Mage. The good, and the bad. We have more than just our origins in common, though.” Spreading his fingers, he revealed his fluffed-up familiar. 

The gundi stared imperiously up at Zitao for a long, long moment. Then, puffing himself up, Bao chirruped loudly. After satisfying himself that he had announced his presence to the human, the small rodent turned his attention to the other familiar and repeated his call. That done, he exhaled heavily and curled back in against the delicate bones of Luhan’s wrist.

Zitao blinked across at the other man and his familiar.

Luhan bit back a smile. “He is a bit, ah, fierce,” he said. “This is Bao. He is my familiar; I am witchborn.”

The rusty-striped mongoose made a cheeping sound and took a running leap into Zitao’s lap. Propping herself on her hind legs, she looked over the edge of Luhan’s hand at the familiar he was cradling. She cheeped once or twice more, then settled back to Zitao’s lap, chittering to herself.

“This is Tavi,” Zitao introduced. “She’s a mongoose. A bit more aggressive than the usual witchborn familiar, but…” He shrugged.

“She doubtless suits you,” Luhan said. “Familiars find us for a reason, after all, and they wouldn’t tell us their names if we weren’t the right ones to know them.” Almost absentmindedly, he stroked under Bao’s chin. “Now. Pleasantries out of the way, I’ve come for a reason.”

Zitao, pouring tea, blanched.

“Oh, don’t be so frightened! I am actually here to make things less frightening,” Luhan told him. He smiled, and it wasn’t his tame, gentle smile. This expression was far more dangerous, a hunter’s grin. “I am witchborn, you are witchborn. You’re about to be married to a man. I happen to have married a very lovely man three years ago. My mother-in-law-to-be sat me down and had a very frank discussion about certain aspects of my anatomy and how they correspond with certain aspects of others’ anatomy. I am going to have a very similar conversation with you.”

“Iknowaboutgettingpregnantalready,” Zitao blurted out.

Luhan’s smile only grew. “Oh, of that, I’m sure. I’m certain they taught you how to be sure you…” He paused, then, delicately, said, “caught. No. I’m going to teach you how to enjoy it. And, if need be, how to avoid it.”

Zitao stared at him. “A-avoid it?”

“There are times when a person does not desire to be with child,” Luhan said bluntly. Reaching forward, he accepted the cup of tea that Zitao had absently offered. “There are ways of...uprooting the seed, as it were, if it comes to that. However, it’s far less unpleasant to prevent seed from taking root in the first place. And, you’ll find, not that hard.” 

“But why…?” Pale-faced, Zitao cradled his own tea close to his chest.

Luhan sipped at the tea. “Not all of us have to seal a treaty with a child,” he admitted. “My husband and I...I didn’t want to be with child while he was off at war, and, frankly, I think he would have rather died than have me be pregnant with him so far away. He’s a worrier, Minseok is.” He shook his head. “No, we waited until after there was a treaty nearly done to risk conceiving. Which is not to say that we have been remiss in our marital duties when he’s been in the city!”

Zitao squeaked and flushed a brilliant red. “But...you...how…?”

“There are teas,” Luhan told him. “Nasty tasting tinctures, to be sure, but they prevent your monthlies, and with no monthlies, no babies! And they wear off fairly rapidly, too, once you stop taking them. Why, it only took us a month.” He rested a hand high on his lap.

As if drawn by magnets, Zitao’s wide eyes drifted down to Luhan’s belly, as if expecting to see something there, hidden behind the wide sash of his robes. Then, slowly, he looked back up to the other man’s face. “But. If you’re...why are you...isn’t that dangerous?”

“Not yet,” Luhan said, full-on grinning. “Not for a few more months, at least. Though, uh, don’t tell the Suho? I haven’t mentioned it to him, yet, as he’s like as not to faint at the mere thought. If Minseok’s protective, the Suho’s downright  _ coddling _ .”

Zitao stared at him. After a moment, he slowly lifted his tea to his lips and took a long, fortifying sip. “Alright,” he said, sighing the word out on a heavy breath. “Obviously, you have much to teach me, gege.” He bowed his head, a little brother to a wiser sibling. “Please, I await your knowledge.”

 

\---

 

Baekhyun and Amber stood, eyeing the large, canopied construction where their charge would be spending the night. They were some of the few members of the Clanlands contingent who had been permitted to cross the river on to the Outer Kingdom’s side of the border; it was all in respect to the fact that they would be coming with Zitao, as his bodyguards and a taste of home.

“It’s…” Baekhyun began, and then faltered.

“Gaudy,” Amber finished, her hands on her hips. She eyed the bright fabrics that servants were even now lashing into place. “Also, a fire hazard. And I could put a spear through that wall as easy as breathing. Maybe easier, if it’s at a run.”

“Ah, but you wouldn’t get close enough.”

Baekhyun slanted a look over at their “guide,” a soldier from the Suho’s forces who was guarding them as much as anything. “Oh? That much faith in your squad?” He glanced at the scurrying people. “Half a squad?”

“You’re vicious,” the man said, ignoring the question with a nod. “You will get along disturbingly well with General Kim. He, too, likes to identify the easiest ways to take out our Suho in his sleep.”

Baekhyun’s look darkened. “Am I to take this as a warning?” He asked, voice gone dark and cold.

The other man’s lips curled into what could be, charitably, called a smile. His eyes fixed on Amber’s hand on the hilt of her short sword. “No, no. Certainly not a threat, honoured guest. Call it...fair indication. The Suho has a unique relationship with General Kim, and neither would take well to overzealous guards intruding upon that.”

“What he means,” a slim woman sighed, striding over to the huddle, her arms laden with a basket full of pale white linen, “is that General Kim was the Suho’s whipping boy, back when they were young enough to need such things. And that he generally did more punishing than he ever received.” She shook her head, elbowing past a bemused Amber with her burden. “I don’t think the palace ponds have seen half as many bathers since the General went off to be trained by General Choi.”

“Tipped him in the drink?” Amber posited, her eyebrows rising.

The woman grinned. “Repeatedly. With much yelling, so everyone knew it was coming. There’s a  _ reason _ most of us would follow the Suho into certain death, you know. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s a kind man.” She nodded to Amber, then to Baekhyun. “Your Mage--he’s in good hands. With all of us, but especially with our Suho.”

Baekhyun turned his attention back to the other man. “Is he safe with you, war-mage?”

The man snorted, tossing his long hair back over his shoulder with a flick of his head. “Couldn’t hide it from  _ you _ , could I?” he asked, the question completely rhetorical. “I suppose your familiar sniffed mine out?”

Amber laughed, even as Baekhyun shot her a warning glare.

“No,” he said, icily polite. “But I am not sense-dumb, and you do have rather a...presence.” He quirked his lips. “Usually, I try to train the new recruits to, ah, strap it down, as it were. I could, perhaps, offer you some tips?”

“General Kim is going to draft you on the spot,” the man muttered. He sighed, then gestured upward with one hand, whistling sharply. He kept his eyes on Baekhyun and Amber as a small bird of prey dove from the trees, lighting on his hand. “Mikas, learn them. They’re going to be under our purview, now.” He lowered his hand as he spoke, and the bird--Mikas, his familiar--climbed up his arm until he was settled at the man’s shoulder. 

“I am Byun Baekhyun, war-mage, fire-class,” Baekhyun murmured, bowing to familiar and mage alike. “And this is Norda.” He gestured to the binturong at his heels.

“Liu Amber,” Amber said, also bowing. 

“Mikas,” the man said, nodding slightly towards his familiar, “and I am Kim Heechul, war-mage, wind-class.” He looked to the woman, who was now edging towards the tent. “And that troublemaker is Madame Hyejung, Keeper of the Rooms.”

Hyejung bowed, briefly. “After I have settled these linens,” she said, shifting her bundle to her hip, “I will need to steal the both of you, long enough to key you into the wards on the Suho’s tent. When we arrive back at the castle, I will also need to key you into the wards on his rooms, and discuss with the both of you want wards should be placed on the Mage-Consort’s rooms.”

Amber and Baekhyun exchanged glances. After a moment, Amber spoke up. “Mage Zitao will place his own wards, Madame,” she said slowly, clearly feeling her way through the darkness as she spoke.

Both the Keeper of the Rooms and the war-mage stared at her. Madame Hyejung’s face was pale, uncomfortable, but Heechul looked measuring, as if he was considering something that only he could see.

Aware of the tension, Baekhyun tried to step around whatever offence they had just inadvertently caused. “We do not cast aspersions upon the Royal mages, of course,” he soothed, “nor do we doubt their wisdom or skill. But Mage Zitao is a fully-trained mage, for all his youth, with a strong grasp of defensive magics. It would be highly unusual and quite inappropriate for him to ask another to lay down such  wards in his place.”

Madame Hyejung’s face remained tight. “It would be quite inappropriate,” she replied, the words creeping between clenched teeth, “for a member of the royal house to lay down wards at all. Talent or no,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Baekhyun blinked, surprised. “Madame?”

“Mages are...not seen the same, in the Outer Kingdom, as they are in the Clanlands,” Heechul answered for her, a picture of calm but for the way his fingers drummed against Mikas’s feet on his fist. “It is not unknown, among the military, that I was intended for the Military Academy, at least until Mikas showed up.”

“You’re noble, then,” Amber surmised, “but denied commission for your mage-craft?”

“Nobleborn, perhaps, yes,” Heechul agreed, inclining his head. “But you shan’t find my name on the Rolls of Houses any longer. After all, only the Suho’s line throws mages, and that only because the ghosts must be assuaged.”

“And our Mage?” Baekhyun asked, tone dark.

“Is a gift to the bloodline,” Madame Hyejung said, sure and calm. “But…” She hesitated.

“But there is a reason that he will always only be Mage-Consort, and never Prince or Consort-Royal,” Heechul filled in. “Because that would be too much mage-blood, too close. Too clear.”

Baekhyun made a face. “And your priests? Your shamans? Who guards you against the dark of the night?”

Madame Hyejung lifted an elegant brow. “What walks in the night, that someone should need to?”

Heechul made a rude noise. “Outside of one’s ancestor spirits, of course. Though they, too, fall under the Suho’s purview. No, most of our priests and shamans are mage-touched, at most, and few so strongly as to have a familiar, let alone an appreciable gift.”

“It is, of course, more common, the further one gets from the capital,” Madame Hyejung explained. “As is the way of such things.”

“Why, some of the common-folk even keep their mage-gifted children on the family scrolls!” Heechul said with horrible false brightness. “Though, that far out, I hear, they also drown the witchborn at birth. Why have the stigma without the gifts?”

“That is  _ enough _ , Kim Heechul,” Madame Hyejung snapped. “If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head…!”

“No, no,” Amber murmured, looking sharply at the still-bristling soldier. “This...this may be important. Baekhyun, you know more about mage-craft, and about the Mage’s tastes in protection spells. Will you discuss the warding needs with Madame Hyejung? War-mage Kim and I need to have a long conversation about what, exactly, our Mage is walking in to.”


	3. Chapter Three

Deep inside the many layers of his wedding finery, Zitao shivered. Though the rain seemed to have finally given up on the constant downpour, the earth was soaked, the river was running high, and the air itself was still heavy with moisture. As the sun had begun sinking below the horizon, a chill had begun to settle in, and even Tavi’s thick fur and the heavy fabrics he was draped in did little to combat the chill.

Not, mind, that all the chill was physical. Though the collar was striped with red, and every layer but for the innermost had designs picked out painstakingly in red and gold, the robes themselves were white. Save for the rich, bloody red of his inner sleeves and the gold and red of the decorations in his hair, Zitao knew he might look like he was rising from his own funeral bier.

“You’re beautiful, Mage,” Zhoumi murmured to him, carefully gathering up the scattered brushes and combs he’d been using on Zitao’s hair, as careful as ever of mongoose curled around the other man’s neck. “These people will be blessed to look upon you, and by the Salt Sisters, that king of theirs will know it when he sees you.”

Zitao tried to smile at the court manservant who had been sent to tend him for the wedding, shivering again as the long strands of hair hanging almost loose about his face brushed against his cheeks. It would likely be the last time he would ever wear his hair so loose, or so obviously long—both were signs in the Outer Kingdoms, his new home, of an unwed woman--or, in some cases, witchborn. The Suho would doubtless be displeased to have his spouse displaying something like that to the kingdom as a whole.

“Thank you, Zhoumi,” Zitao said. “For your words, and your work. I know it must be hard, spending all this time just to see it go up in smoke.”

At that, Zhoumi flicked a negligent hand. “You’d be surprised, Mage. There’s an art form to all of this. Besides. Some of the most beautiful things in life are the most fleeting.” His expression softened, a distant smile darkening his downcast eyes. “How shameless would I be, to think I could create something that could compete with a sunset or a field of flowers?”

Zhoumi’s wife, Zitao recalled suddenly, had been a mage, though her skills had been weak and had lain in convincing things to grow. She’d been one of the gardeners in the Emperor’s estate, before the fever. He tried, again, to smile at the other man; this time, something weak and tremulous broke through.

At that, Zhoumi’s smile widened a little, the corners of his eyes rising ever-so. “The paper of the flowers,” he said quietly, carefully brushing the delicate petals of one of the flowers dangling down from the hairpin thrust through the bun at the center of Zitao’s head, “is made from fiber that only grows on the plains.” Taking the end of Zitao’s braid in his hand, he raised it so that mage, familiar, and artisan alike could see the comb woven in to the end, holding it together. “I had a potter make the phoenix from sacred clays from your mother’s homeland, and,” he flipped the end of Zitao’s braid up, so they could all see the tiny pearls hidden beneath the phoenix’s red-glazed wings, “pearls as her chicks. One for each of your sisters.”

Sure enough, three small pearls were hidden under the tiny bird’s porcelain wings.

“Thank you,” Zitao mumbled, raising his eyes to the ceiling of the tent, trying desperately not to let the rising tears fall. The amount of time and effort that this man who barely knew him must have put in to making sure that some representation of Zitao’s clan, of his first family, his  _ true _ family, was present—even though the hair ornaments, like the robes, would be cast into the flames and utterly consumed.

Zhoumi, kind as ever, simply bowed to him.

 

\---

 

Junmyeon let his eyes fall shut as Kyungsoo entered the large, open space of the tent, breathing deeply in the heavy, smoky air. Between the incense in the hanging lanterns and the steady, droning chant of the priests, he could feel himself growing more distant, his concerns and fears fading away with the faintly purple curls of smoke.

This wedding wouldn’t be like the last. He was a man grown, now, and the Suho to an entire nation of people. The ceremony here was not just lip service to half-forgotten traditions, the son of a barely-legitimate side-tail in the blood marrying the youngest daughter of a merchant house on the rise, but a carefully choreographed show of might and respect, as befitted the joining of royal houses. And this time, this time…he had Kyungsoo.

The droning chant stopped abruptly, even as Junmyeon felt Kyungsoo settle beside his head. Somewhere, someone struck a drum. The air itself vibrated, and Junmyeon vibrated with it.

The first touch of the horsehair brush against his skin was cool, almost bordering on cold. The ink, made from ash and wine and at least two things Kyungsoo swore he was oath-bound not to reveal, spread across his skin, clinging and thick. As the characters grew, spreading from beneath his chin, down his throat, and across his chest, a tingling flush began to flow in their wake. Like a colony of ants, ticklish and mobile, they spread, then bit, sharp and burning. The sensation of the very surface of his skin crawling gave way to a stabbing, heated pain in slowly swelling waves.

Junmyeon gasped, just as the drum beat again. 

 

\---

 

The shaman and the priest who had been chosen for the ceremony stood side by side, a study in contrasts. 

Seokmin, priest of the Emperor’s mage creche, wore long, layered robes dyed a dark, golden yellow. His eyes were ringed in smudged lines of kohl, a sharp stripe of gold laying flat against the lashline. The jewelry he wore, the simple pins and combs in his hair, the paint on his fingertips--it was all gold. Only his boots broke the theme, crafted as they were from horse hide. Beneath them--and hidden beneath the swaddling layers of his robes--Zitao knew that the man wore the wild patterns that the mountains sang to their children, stained in the same deep, ruddy brown that had been painted across his own fingertips. Seokmin, like Zitao, had been born from the earth, and none who saw him could mistake it.

Shamans, however, claimed no allegiance to any of the Great Clan divisions, any more than Water, Earth, Wood, or Metal claimed them. With all but her eyes hidden behind the wind-brushed layers of her veils and headdress, the shaman was unrecognizable to Zitao. Her simple wool trousers and tunic, however, spoke to her high rank; even the bindings that held the billowing legs tight to her ankles and, beneath her boots, to her feet were made of plain, undyed cotton. The charms, wards, and suchlike she wore lent colour and sound enough to the ensemble, after all. She wore a turquoise headwrap, stitched through with vibrant pink and lemon yellow and silver and gold threads, held in place by a headdress that was a riot of tiny brass bells and silver chimes, hung with glittering mirror-glass and beads of jewel-toned glass and hand-carved gems alike. A strip of said beads trailed down the long bridge of her nose, where it split into two trailing strings of bells, singing brightly against her cheeks. This held the fluttering gauze of her veils in place. Around her wrist, a black band breathed, seemingly out of place in her ensemble, despite the way it iridesced in the firelight. Her familiar, then, must have been a snake.

Both Seokmin and the unfamiliar shaman stared at Zitao and Tavi, standing before them in the heavy layers of silk and canvas and linen and wool. The wind sang through the dangling ends of his hair pins, sending the long ribbons of the bead-and-flower garland he wore around his neck dancing wildly. The amulet that hung at the center, as big as a fist, stayed still, even as the silk threads that ran through it trembled. Tavi had finally come down from her perch inside the neck of Zitao’s robes, and sat beside him on the muddy earth, her long, thick tail curled tight around his ankle.

For a long, long moment, they all stared at each other, the river burbling to one side and the fire crackling to the other. Across the river, the Kingdom’s drums beat and one of their priests chanted something. A man was stumbling through some sort of recitation. On the Clanland shore, no one spoke.

Finally, the shaman inclined her head, making what surely must have been thousands of tiny bells and chimes sing out. She thrust out the arm that did not wear her familiar, fingers trailing pompoms of wool the same bright colours of her headwrap, arm hung around with artistic paper prayers and well-wishes. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly young, high and bright beneath her veils.

“Huang Zitao,” she said. “Last son of Ye-Cao.” Her eyes drifted, unseeing, rolling half back into her head. Her next words were distant, hazy, as if drawn from her lips without her will. “Firstborn of Yi Fanhaa, descended from the Horselord. Scion of the Grasslands. Ancestor of the Rising Line.” She gasped, seeming to come back to herself, even as the snake at her wrist stirred. She blinked once, twice, then drew her spine upright. 

Seokmin stepped forward. “You come before us, seeking the blessings of the land and all her guardians, do you not?”

“I do,” Zitao said, managing to keep the shiver out of his voice through sheer force of will. “I would ask...blessings. For my marriage, and the family I join. And create.”

Inclining his head, Seokmin seemed to allow for this. Beside him, though, the shaman shifted.

“What use have you of a child’s token?” she asked, her eyes on the clay amulet hanging around his neck.

Wrapping his fingers around the baked clay disk on its silk rope, Zitao lifted the flowery garland up over his head. “I have no use of a child’s token,” he agreed. “My husband’s family will give me a place to belong.” Not looking, he tossed the garland into the fire.

Ignoring the happy roar as the amulet was devoured, Seokmin continued. “What use have you of a traveling cloak?”

Zitao’s fingers trembled as he untangled the knotted cord holding the outermost layer around himself. “I have no use of a traveling cloak,” he said, knowing full well that what he was removing was so much more than a simple traveling cloak, but following the ceremony anyway. “My husband will provide me with warmth and shelter.”

Beside him, the fire roared as it consumed the feathers and wool.

 

\---

 

Junmyeon’s feet slid a little in the soft mud on the edge of the river, even as little tickles of water lapped against his toes. He felt that he might drift away with that eddying flow, but for the dull weight of Sehun and Chanyeol anchoring him down on either side.

The two men led him forward carefully, walking steadily until the water eddied around Junmyeon’s navel. He could feel it rippling around all three of them, sudden interruptions in the usually even flow of the river. Already, the symbols painted on his legs and lower body were swirling away into the darkness, their sting fading and a certain awareness starting to return.

As he stood, shivering, in the sunset-lit river, Chanyeol and Sehun scooped up handfuls of water and let them fall over his head and shoulders. On the bank, Kyungsoo stood, staring out at them.

“Think on this as you think of marriage, Suho,” he intoned, starting the traditional recitation of lessons in place of Junmyeon’s father. “Just as the water spills from you to join the river, so, too, must your life flow forth to join with your spouse. You will be the headwaters of your family, that, like the rivers of the earth, your line will continue. Just as the river nourishes the land, so, too, must you nourish your spouse, and the family that you both shall create. You will bring life, and preserve it, as is only right and good.”

On the bank, the drumbeats were getting slower, quieter. 

“But rivers are not only bringers of life,” Kyungsoo continued. “They also protectors, and guardians.” 

It might have been a trick of the light, or of the drugs still clearing from his system, but Junmyeon fancied he saw Kyungsoo’s lips quirk into what could have been called a grin, just for a moment.

“As the rivers have guarded our Kingdom, and as Suhos have, for generations long passed, guarded our people, so, too, must you guard your spouse, and the family that you both shall create. For those is no greater gift in life than the gift of life, and the care of it is only right and good. Most precious of all is the gift of life that we give to others, and thus must we guard it as a man guards the clear spring that flows deep in the forest.”

“You are not alone in your task,” Sehun said suddenly, his part of the ceremony having been reached. “Even as men may come together to protect what sources of water they find, so too may family assist one another. I will stand with you, brother, as you enter into marriage, to guide you in the right paths and to protect what is yours. As I am your brother, so too will I become brother to your spouse, and welcome him as he joins our line.”

“Your friends, too, stand beside you,” Chanyeol added, pouring another cupped handful of water down Junmyeon’s spine. “No river must fill the sea alone, nor must any one river take all of earth’s water to the land. You, too, have others beside you. Though we may not be of the same line, and though our courses may flow separately, your friends will stand beside you. As you have welcomed me into your heart, so too shall I welcome your spouse, and endeavour to stand as a friend to him as I do to you.”

Junmyeon closed his eyes. “I thank you, friends, and I thank you, brother, for letting your wisdom fall upon me as rain falls to the earth. Just as the river gathers the rain, I will gather your words, and hold them to me.”

Then, taking a deep breath, he let himself fall backwards into the water.

 

\---

 

Zitao shivered. The air was cool and damp, though it could have been from the earlier rain or from the river on whose bank they stood, or both. And he wasn’t wearing much, not anymore. His fine layers had been cast into the fire, one after the other, until he stood in front of Seokmin and the anonymous shaman in nothing more than a shift and loose trousers, Tavi a puffed-up line of fur by his feet. Made of simple homespun linen, the clothes did nothing to insulate him. Tavi, antsy from the magic rising around her, wasn’t able to help much, either.

“What use,” the shaman asked, a familiar repetition by now, “have you of what you bear?”

Zitao took a deep, steadying breath, letting it flow through him until even his toes were tingling with life. Finally, he spoke.  “I bear only the skin my mother wove me, the breath my father blew me, and the fruit of the land from which I was grown. Of these things was I made, and I bear them with me always. I bear them now, too, as a gift to my new clan.”

The shaman looked over to Seokmin, who looked back at her. They looked to one another in a long moment of pretended contemplation, and then turned back to face Zitao.

Seokmin took up the ritual words. “It is true; no man can leave behind these things, for of such things he is made. But all men must cast aside that which is no longer theirs to hold, when leaving their clan, for death or for life.”

“Then I must cast such things aside. I leave my Clan, not for death but for life, the life of my husband and the life I will create with him,” Zitao replied, bowing his head. Beside him, Tavi made a low, strange chirrup, and pressed herself against his ankle. She still did not add much warmth.

The shaman, too, bowed her head. The charms and bells on her headwrap and veil sang brightly with the movement. “Child, from the moment the Singing Sky breathed wind into your lungs and the Whispering Fields gave clay into your mother’s hands, that she might shape you, the land has given itself to you. Your mother spilled out her own blood, in honor of that debt, when she brought you into your clan. How now will you leave it?”

“I leave my clan now as all men must,” Zitao replied, ignoring the way Tavi now whined continuously against his foot, “in fire and in blood.”  

Now, he knew, was the moment of truth. Drawing on all his faith in the demons and himself (and Baekhyun, and the palace weavers), he steeled himself to make the next move. He took two large steps forward, his familiar bounding as close behind him as she dared, until the flames of the fire at the river’s edge were nearly within his reach. Taking the gold-washed knife that Seokmin held out to him, he grasped it tightly. “Singing Sky, Whispering Fields, mother and father who made me, and all the demons, great and small. All that I am has come from you, but I must leave this land. As one dead, I return the gifts you have given me. Please accept them, and forget my sad existence.”

The knife’s blade went through the meat of his palm easily, sharp enough that the wound barely hurt. Still clutching the knife in his right hand, Zitao held his bleeding hand out over the fire, and let the blood fall.

The glowing coals hissed as his blood dropped on to them, and then the shaman nodded to him, though her eyes remained fixed on the flames.

“The demons invite you, child, to try and leave their hold,” she murmured, her voice rising to be heard over Tavi’s increasingly audible cries. “The fire will wash you clean, one way or the other.”

Zitao took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had personally stitched the fireproofing charms into the fabric that made up his clothing and that, even if he hadn’t, this was a common element of clan marriage ceremonies. Most people were only asking their clan demons to forget them, though--not the entire country’s worth. Still. He could do this--and he knew Baekhyun was watching, hands gathered, ready to tame the fire, if he needed to. Tavi might not be able to walk the fire with him, but she would be waiting for him, eager to reseal any rough edges the cleansing left in their bond.

Closing his eyes, he put one bare foot on the coals--and walked.

 

\---

 

“They may be barbarians,” one of the ministers whispered, not quietly enough to keep Junmyeon from hearing him, “but you must admit, they’re brave.”

Watching his husband-to-be walking through a whirling firestorm that had been coals not a moment before, Junmyeon had to agree with the last half of that statement. Luhan had mentioned that the traditional marriage ceremony for the grassland clans involved cremation, as if the clan member leaving had died, but he’d made it sound a lot more...figurative. The burning of things, and a dash across hot coals. Not...not stepping barely clothed into a tornado of flames.

Though, given the way he could just barely see Luhan’s face, moon-pale, out of the corner of his eye… Maybe this was not so normal as he thought.

“That’s one strong mage,” Kyungsoo said, his eyes fixed across the river. “The land doesn’t want to let him go--can you feel it?” He frowned. “Your Highness, we may need to speed up the timeline for introducing him to your family spirits. The faster they accept him, the safer we will  _ all _ be.”

Junmyeon simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Kyungsoo had been one of very, very few people in the Golden Tower to survive the fever and the darkness, though he had not made it through either unscathed. The dark of that night had leached into his eyes, leaving them black and empty, stranding him in a world that had never regained its light. That he was even now following the mage’s movements through the flames, as if he could actually  _ see _ something…

Junmyeon shivered, and it wasn’t all due to the chill breeze rising off the river.

 

\---

 

Baekhyun was shaking, Zitao noticed distantly, as his friend escorted him to the river’s edge for the traditional exchange. Norda, too, seemed disturbed, her claws hooking tightly into Baekhyun’s robes, her tail wrapped around his throat like a collar. Even Tavi, who’d buried herself deep inside the new robes he had been clothed in as soon as he’d made it through the flames, was trembling where she hid herself against his belly. He himself wasn’t shivering anymore, though he wasn’t sure if that was because the heat of the flames had driven the chill from his skin even as it had dried the damp garments he was wearing, or if it was that he was simply far too terrified to even do that, anymore.

The flat barge--more of a raft, really--was waiting for them, barely touching the river bank. It was large, a wide stretch of boards crafted to fit several people and bear them to the center of the river, and across. Still, it was an inherently humble craft, and temporary from the start.

It swayed a little as Baekhyun stepped aboard, and the priest and government official already standing on it swayed, too. Norda clung a little tighter. Baekhyun ignored them, even Norda’s sharp grip, just nodded to Amber and then extended a hand to Zitao.

“Mage,” he murmured.

Zitao ducked his head, even as he reached out and took Baekhyun and Amber’s outstretched hands. He let them help him aboard, then brace him as the raft began to move.

They met the Suho’s barge in the center of the river, or near enough that neither party’s officials could call offense. The officials said things about the joining of the two nations, the ending of hostilities, the exchanging of promises of peace. The priests prayed and chanted and intoned in some odd combination of traditions from both sides of the river, as if to assure everyone that this was, in fact, a true and well-meant joining.

Throughout it all, though, Zitao simply stared at his husband-to-be (husband already? When was the joining official? Now? After the consummation?) and was stared at in return.

The Suho, Junmyeon, was not a large man, except perhaps in reputation. He was shorter than Zitao by at least a full head, and was built more like a swordsman than a brawler. His hair was pulled into a tight knot atop his head, adorned with a small cage that glittered in the light reflected from the torches, struck through with a series of long, wickedly sharp-looking pins. He, unlike the two guards who had accompanied him aboard the barge, wore a short knife and a longer dagger at his hip.

When, at the priests’ urging, they grasped hands, Zitao was surprised to feel his husband’s shake.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be sexing.

Chapter 4

Surely, Junmyeon thought, there was nothing more uncomfortably revealing than the fertility blessing at the end of a wedding. He could feel a flush rising in his cheeks, and rather hoped that the others in the tent would attribute it to the heat of the small space, rather than shame.

No sooner had his husband--had Zitao’s--still-bare foot touched Kingdom soil than they had been beset by people. Men and women who had come with the marriage caravan for just this purpose, some selected by Kyungsoo, others by tradition, had swarmed the pair. A group of women, their faces covered in wild paints and elegantly carved masks, had taken Zitao by the arms and drawn him toward the marriage tent, laughing and shaking chiming rattles over his head and against the flat of his belly as they went. Their male companions, similarly clad--and, in some cases, unclad--had taken Junmyeon.

Though he knew the marriage tent--actually his own tent, blessed for this special day--was actually quite large, Junmyeon couldn’t shake the feeling of being crushed by people as soon as they were all piled in. He and Zitao were brought to the foot of the bed by their escorts, and, as the mongoose at Zitao’s feet darted into the shadows, the undressing commenced.

Somebody--a somebody with startlingly cold fingers--thrust their hands under his outermost robe. Even as he shuddered in surprise, the group laughed and opened the ornate fabric, pushing it to his shoulders.

Junmyeon let it drop. He tried to fight the hands at his belt, but subsided when a tall, slender woman wearing the yellow eye-paint and callused hands of a Yen-Bu swordswoman met his gaze and nodded. The rest of the group let her take the honor of carefully removing the belt, and the blades that hung there. She vanished, hopefully to store them properly, even as the rest of the throng pressed forward.

He was getting most of the attention, Junmyeon knew, because, unlike his new husband, he wore many layers. A few of the mystics, still laughing, were focused on Zitao, though. When he looked over--trying to ignore yet another set of hands sliding between layers of his clothing--Junmyeon saw a woman wearing a hawk-carved mask carefully lifting shimmering pins from his husband’s hair, one hand already full of the glittering tools. Someone else, a man with the eight-fold eyes painted over his face, was kneeling before the simply-dressed mage, urging him to lift his bare feet so that a warm, wet cloth could be passed over them.

Junmyeon was allowed to remove the Suho’s crown himself, though a mage he recognised from Kyungsoo’s workroom held out the velvet-lined tray for him to settle it in. Beside him, someone was humming an old folktune for the blossoming of the fields as two sets of hands unbraided the ornate work of Zitao’s hair, then worked into a simpler, undoubtedly more comfortable, style.

Then they were both down to their barest underthings, and a gong was struck, two gold rattles were shaken, and the giggling group bowed and fled.

\---

At last, the foreign hands were gone, and the masked, bright-eyed mages and mystics with them. The flaps of the tent fell shut, closing king and consort in a warm, quiet darkness, broken only by the row of lanterns hanging from the center pole. There was talking, and laughter, and the sounds of an encampment just outside, but here…

“Please, husband.”

Zitao looked up, startled. His eyes met the Suho’s, and they, too, were dark and warm. And close. Those eyes were so very close; when had the Suho come so near?

He inhaled sharply as the other man’s hand touched his face, his heart beating so hard he was certain that Baekhyun, standing guard outside the tent, must be able to hear it. Surely the Suho, with his dark eyes and his pale lips, could hear it as well.

“Don’t be afraid, please,” the Suho murmured, leaning in close, and Zitao was surprised to realise again that his husband was shorter than he was. For all the power he carried, and for all he did not seem half as naked as Zitao, though they both had been stripped to their barest underthings… He was not a large man, not at all.

The Suho smiled, a soft, scared little thing. “I am going to be as gentle as I can,” he said, calm and quiet. “We must...we must consummate the marriage, it’s true, but there’s nothing saying I must hurt you. And I have no intentions of doing so.”

Zitao swallowed. “Y-yes, Suho,” he managed, the words trembling out on a shaking breath.

“Please don’t call me that,” the Suho said, his eyes shuttering a little. “I...you are my husband, now. I would ask that you call me by my name.”

“Your name, Your Majesty?” Zitao wasn’t sure what to say to that. Even the royal-born ladies of the court called their husbands My Lord.

“My name, husband. It’s Junmyeon.”

“J-Junmyeon,” Zitao stuttered obediently. Then, taking a deep breath, he said it again. “Junmyeon. Husband.”

Again, the Suho--Junmyeon--smiled. “Just so.” His hand, startlingly callused for one of his rank, stroked against Zitao’s cheek. “Might I kiss you, husband?”

“If you so desire, my--Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon’s lips were a little too chapped to be truly soft, but his touch was as delicate as the brush of a butterfly’s wings, and just as brief.

Zitao blinked, looking into Junmyeon’s eyes, still so close to his face, and felt a rush of heat brightening his cheeks. He swallowed nervously, then stammered, “I-I would allow my husband another, were he to...were he to call me by my name, as well.”

The way Junmyeon’s smile lifted, curving to lift his cheeks and sparkle in his eyes, made the embarrassment worth it. “Indeed, husband? And how would you have me name you?”

“Zitao,” Zitao murmured, saying his name the way his mother had once said it, the way it sounded in the mouths of those from the Grass Clans. He had no hopes that his new husband, not even from the Clanlands, would say it correctly, but…

“Zitao,” Junmyeon tried, his lips quirking a little as he clearly heard how different the name sounded when he said it. “Zitao,” he tried again, then shook his head. “You may need to bear with me, a while,” he admitted.

A laugh broke free from Zitao’s nerves, startling him and, it seemed, Junmyeon as well. Ducking his head, he gave into a flight of something and pressed his lips against the other man’s.

Junmyeon’s startled smile felt strange against his mouth for the barest fraction of a moment, and then the hand that had been on his cheek was curving against his chin, his jaw, nudging Zitao this way and that, while the hand that had been on his shoulder slid down, coming to rest over the racing thump of his heart. And this kiss might not have been as swift nor as chaste as the first, but it was still careful, still gentle, as if Zitao were something fragile and precious in Junmyeon’s grasp.

Junmyeon broke the kiss, careful as ever, and looked Zitao in the eyes. “I promise, Zitao,” he said, “that I will be as gentle with you as I can.”

Zitao nodded, then took a step back. His fingers were clumsy, and he fumbled with the twined ribbons of his loincloth. At first, he had been surprised to see that the Suho wore something very similar beneath his robes; in the Clanlands, only women and the witchborn wore dari-sokgot beneath their other layers. Now, however, Zitao kept his eyes down on his own hands. When he had finally succeeded in untying the knot, he placed the length of soft cotton with his other clothes and carefully lay back on the thick mat that had been placed on a platform made from interlocking wooden pieces, clearly intended for travel.

Junmyeon had promised to be gentle, but Zitao was not the first witchborn child to leave the mage-creche as a hostage-bride. He had heard the stories, been told the tips the others had learned to make it hurt less, or to ease the hurts afterward. He wasn’t expecting much.

As Junmyeon joined him on the bed, lowering himself over Zitao, he closed his eyes and let his legs fall open. He would survive this, he told himself, and come out the stronger. It might hurt, but that would not be a surprise. He knew pain spells, and knew Baekhyun did, too. His husband’s manservant had seemed kind enough, and would likely be kind come the morning.

Warm lips against his forehead made him start in surprise, and then Junmyeon was kissing him softly once more. His hands moved slowly down Zitao’s body, and his mouth followed after. He kissed Zitao’s mouth, his throat, the notch where his collar bones came together. As his fingers traced the muscles of Zitao’s sides, Junmyeon’s mouth drew the same path down the center. He followed the line of Zitao’s sternum, pressing soft kisses in a steady row, down to his belly, to the soft skin below his navel, to the nest of curls beneath that.

Zitao held his breath as his husband came to his cock; he knew Junmyeon had been married before, but she had been a woman. Her body had likely been very different from his.

Junmyeon paused for a brief moment, little more than a heartbeat, and then inched a little further down on the bed. He ran his hands over Zitao’s hips, then over his thighs, so that he could gently, so gently, open Zitao’s legs a little further. Carefully, as careful as he would be with his own, more carefully, even, he stroked his husband’s soft cock. Once, twice, three times, and then his eyelashes were fluttering shut as he pressed a whisper of a kiss to the crown of Zitao’s cock.

He flattered himself that he could hear a swift inhale, not pained but pleased, from where Zitao had brought his hands up over his face.

Junmyeon had not done this with his wife, with Seondeok, the pair of them too young and scared for much more than simply meeting the terms of the political arrangement that was their marriage. But there had been women, between her and Zitao, and Luhan had been blunt with him. And so Junmyeon thought little of sliding lower, pressing a kiss to the warm, sweat-damp skin of Zitao’s inner thigh, and then tracing one finger along his folds.

And that was definitely a gasp.

Grinning a little, Junmyeon pressed in close, until he was practically wearing Zitao, and followed the path his finger had taken with his tongue. He didn’t leave Zitao long to linger on that sensation, either, but brought his hands back into play, spreading that most secret part of his husband open for his gaze--and his touch.

He wasted no time in staring, though, instead pressing an open-mouthed kiss, far dirtier than anything previous, to the so-sensitive place where Zitao’s cock met the lips of his cunt. None of his previous partners had had both, but that just meant that the sensation of Zitao’s cock twitching against his cheek was as new to him as the sensation of a mouth on his cunt must have been for Zitao.

His blood thrumming in his ears, Junmyeon set to work, burying his face in his husband’s cunt, with the occasional diversion to run his tongue along the length of his rapidly-hardening cock. His hands were in constant motion, tracing esoteric patterns over Zitao’s muscular thighs, gripping his hips, teasing along his cock, even stroking through the wet mess starting between his thighs whenever Junmyeon raised his head to breathe for a moment. Every touch was feather-light, delicate, soft and planned for pleasure.

He had forgotten, Junmyeon realised, how wonderful wringing gasps and whimpers from a partner’s mouth could be. Zitao had his hands firmly over his face, but they couldn’t stop the sharp sounds, nor could they keep Junmyeon from hearing them, and chasing them down again and again. One moment he was licking deep into Zitao’s heat, the next flicking his tongue along over his sensitive folds, then tracing the vein that ran up the underside of his cock, then down again. He could feel Zitao’s legs trembling against his shoulders, his chest heaving.

Junmyeon was not entirely unaffected, of course. Between his own thighs, his cock was rising, a steady throb of want and need. The sounds Zitao was making--gasps, bitten-back moans, throaty whines--were heady, but not nearly as heady as they were when they came in time with the slick, wet sound of Junmyeon’s tongue on his cunt. Headiest of all was the knowledge that he was the one teasing those sounds from Zitao’s mouth, likely even the one teaching his throat those sounds were possible, if the surprise underlying his pleased noises was any indication. He had not previously thought of himself as the type of person to be a jealous, proud lover, but perhaps, Junmyeon realised, teaching Zitao the pleasures of his body might be enough to make him so.

Lifting his head from between Zitao’s thighs with another long, slow lick, Junmyeon took a few deep, steadying breaths, urging himself to think for a moment. Then, pushing himself a little higher up, so he was a little more stable, he thrust two fingers deep into his mouth. Rolling them around in his mouth, he made sure to get them thoroughly soaked before slowly pulling them out--he was pretty sure he could see the shine of Zitao’s wide eyes between his fingers--and sliding them down into the slick mess at the apex of Zitao’s thighs.

He was teasing, now, thumb circling over that most secret place, spit-damp fingers sliding against Zitao’s sensitive skin, warning and suggestion in one. And then, leaning down, Junmyeon made good on his promise. Even as the first finger slid into Zitao’s cunt, he closed his mouth around his husband’s cock.

That earned him a high-pitched whine, and Zitao’s head thrashing against the mattress, hands falling away from his face to clench at the soft fabric. Junmyeon wasted no time, his finger immediately starting a rhythmic stroking motion.  
All too soon, however, he was jerking back as Zitao writhed, first his hips and then his shoulders rising off the mattress, the thrashing motion of his legs trapping Junmyeon’s hand where it was. And awkward as the angle of his wrist might have been, and breathless as he was from his first foray into sucking cock, Junmyeon could only watch, rumpled, sweating, and debauched, as his husband whined his way through what might very well have been his first orgasm.

Trailing his fingers through the slick, clear fluid now decorating Zitao’s belly, Junmyeon worked his way up the bed and kissed his red-bitten lips. It was not the careful, delicate motions of before, but a breathless act of care, devotion, and simple pleasure.

Zitao was still gasping for breath, clearly still rolling in waves of pleasure, when Junmyeon drew back. “Your...your maidenhead,” he panted, his eyes on Zitao’s face.

Zitao made a questioning noise, opening his eyes and, for once, meeting Junmyeon’s dead on.

“It’ll hurt less, maybe not at all, if I…” Junmyeon gestured. “Now, while you’re still… While you’re…”

Letting his eyes fall shut again, Zitao licked his lips and nodded. It seemed to take a moment, but he spread his thighs wide, wide enough for Junmyeon to fit easily between them.

The shuffle of their bodies seemed to take forever, each brush of tender skin making Zitao gasp, but his hand was strong and steady as his fingers wrapped around Junmyeon’s cock. He gave it a lazy stroke, much as he might his own, and then helped guide Junmyeon into his body.

It was not the agonising ordeal some of the others had described, and all the major and minor demons be thanked for that. There was pain, yes, a deep pinching sensation that was as much odd as it was unpleasant, but none of the tearing-burning-core-deep pain he had heard about. And Junmyeon’s movement didn’t hurt, either, just twinged and pulled, like an overstretched muscle.

The platform creaked beneath them, and Junmyeon gasped for breath above him, and Zitao thought that maybe, just maybe, being a hostage-bride wouldn’t end so badly.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A chapter that's neither worldbuilding nor smut? I know, I'm just as shocked as you are.

 

It was perilously dark inside the tent, with the candles snuffed and the flaps tied tight against the chill of the night air. Outside, a distant, muffled crackle spoke to the fire that the guards doubtless kept, but the thick canvas walls of the tent kept even the barest hint of light from stealing through.

Inside the tent was quiet, too, unnaturally so. Two people sleeping were not silent, Zitao knew. He had been born into a nomadic clan, and had spent the first six years of his life sleeping in a single large tent with his immediate family. After their deaths, he had lived in a creche full of young mages, deep in the heart of a bustling palace compound. No, Zitao knew that sleeping people were not silent, and were, in truth, very rarely truly quiet, either.

But neither of the two that shared this tent were asleep, were they? Zitao himself certainly wasn’t, his mind abuzz with what had taken place in the past few months, weeks,  _ hours _ , even. A lot had happened, and there was a lot of thinking still to be done. A lot of re-adjusting his thoughts, and more to learn than he thought he might be able to take in.

Beside him, Zitao could tell that the Suho--no, Junmyeon; the man had asked him to use his name--was also awake. He thought maybe that he might be trying to will himself to sleep, so still and stiff and silent was he. It wasn’t working, though, probably for the same reasons Zitao knew he was awake. He was too tense, his body stiff in ways it shouldn’t be, for sleep. He was holding himself rigidly still, as if afraid that breathing too deeply would disturb Zitao. Or that he might brush against his husband’s body, even asleep. Like the casual, unconscious touches of sleep might cross that one bridge too far, when the earlier consumation had not.

Perhaps this great and powerful man, this Suho, was unused to sharing his bed with another body, at least for rest? He was of royal blood; even as a child, a side-tail in the lineage, he had probably had private rooms.  Like as not, he had not learned how people share sleeping space, how they come together to rest in close quarters. He had had no cause to learn, after all.

That thought in mind, Zitao rolled over, up on to his side, until he was facing his new husband. He bore his weight on one arm, gratified that the thin pad atop the wooden bed didn’t give much under his weight. “Junmyeon,” Zitao murmured, quiet enough that he hoped the guards outside the tent couldn’t hear him. Was it banned in the Kingdom, as it was in the Clanlands, to speak the ruler’s blessing name? Did they even give blessing names, in this land? “Husband. You should rest.”

He didn’t say a reason aloud, but he figured he probably didn’t need to. It was no secret for either of them that the marriage ceremony here on the banks of the Boundary Waters had had been merely the opening salvo in what would be a very different kind of war than the one their countries had been fighting for the past few years, though it would likely drag on just as long, or longer. The journey that began the next morning would be physical only in part, because the next steps included introducing Zitao to the Outer Kingdom, and persuading them that the peace brokered across his body had been worth it.

If he thought too much about what lay ahead, he would not sleep at all, Zitao knew. He had little doubt that it sat much the same for his husband.

Junmyeon shifted beside him, just a little. “Ah,” he agreed, his voice just as whisper-quiet as Zitao’s. “Am I keeping you awake, husband?”

“No,” Zitao assured him, smiling despite himself at the man’s care. And it was even mostly true. It wasn’t Junmyeon’s wakefulness that kept Zitao awake, so much as it was the dull ache making itself known in his lower abdomen, the aching realisation that he was now cast out from the only home he had ever know, and the sharp stab of terror at what lay before him.

But those were burdens to be shared with Tavi, when he could find the privacy, and maybe with Baekhyun, if he could get his friend drunk enough to forget it in the morning. These weren’t the fears a Mage Consort shared with the Suho. Besides, he was surely just as pinned by politics as Zitao himself was. 

If he couldn’t solve the sociopolitical, at least right now, he could still help his new husband to rest, though. He was tasked with earning himself an heir, after all, and a little physical exertion might well help the man beside him to sleep. “Though I am concerned that you are...stressed. Is there anything this one may do to give you ease?”

Given the way his lower body had begun to ache, Zitao knew that any more activity of that particular variety tonight would likely hurt. But he was no fool. No matter what the Suho’s manservant had tried to say, as a hostage-bride, Zitao’s only value lay in how quickly an heir could be gotten on him. Besides, he’d heard enough growing up in the court whisperings to know that having his husband happy, or at least sated, would like as not make his own life a lot easier. And it wasn’t like the man had been aggressive with him, earlier. His behaviour had been downright tender, actually, enough so that Zitao had imagined that he might be able to come to like this man, at least a little. And he was pretty, so it wasn’t like pleasing him was any great sacrifice.

Junmyeon shifted again. “No, no,” he said, quickly, as if startled. “No, husband, you should take your rest. You must be tired from…” He bit back what he had been about to say, then finished, lamely, “From before.”

Zitao couldn’t help it; he snickered. Before had been several hours gone, after all. He stifled the sound almost as soon as he made it, but it was there.

Strangely, that seemed to do what his concern had not. Beside him, the other man relaxed, a little. He didn’t strike Zitao for impugning his bed-prowess, or make a threat of doing so. He even let a breath of laughter escape himself. “I know,” he said finally, the words having the ready roll of an oft-heard phrase, “I shouldn’t think so...great of myself.”

“The words of your manservant?” Zitao asked. “Luhan?” It sounded like something the man might tease his Suho with.

“How do you know--oh, he snuck across before the ceremonies, didn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question. Zitao answered, anyway. “He did. He seems to me a force of nature.”

“He’s a force of something, alright,” Junmyeon agreed, voice startlingly dry in the dark. “But no. That particular turn of phrase is my brother’s.”

“Your brother,” Zitao mused, casting his mind back through the family trees he had memorised so rapidly. “Sehun?”

He felt the other man nod beside him. “Though, to be fair, I suspect that my elder sister, Boa, would throw similar accusations around, were it not utterly inappropriate for her to know of such things. Or, rather, to admit to knowing such things. Jokes about a...member...of the royal line. For shame.”

Despite the anxiety still twisting low in his belly, Zitao huffed a small laugh. He had heard--both through uncouth jokes in the creche and, later, in etiquette lessons before his marriage--that even married women in the Outer Kingdom were supposed to keep up a veil of virginal naivete. Most in the Clanlands thought it ridiculous; where did people in the Kingdom think their children came from? Or they themselves? Zitao was glad to hear that his husband, at least, seemed fully aware that his sister knew something of carnality.

“What keeps you awake, my husband?” Zitao asked, finally, amusement calming. He shifted so that he was no longer on one elbow, but instead, lying belly down, his upper body propped up on both elbows. Turning his head to the side, he looked at the slightly less-dark patch that must have been his husband beside him the bed. Briefly, he thought of reaching out and touching the other man’s face, but wasn’t sure that would be allowed, or welcomed.

Junmyeon was silent for a long, long moment. Then, finally, he sighed. “The dark,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it was nearly not there. “I...I am not always at my best, in the dark.”

It was, Zitao suspected, something of an understatement. He had, of course, heard about what had happened nearly nine years ago, when the last Suho before the current--before his husband--had died of a winter fever. Everyone had, even those not usually educated about the goings on in foreign nations; it was hard to keep tales of hundreds of people dying in a single night, nary a mark on any of them, from spreading. And he had heard whispers of what the Outer Kingdom’s royal blood held at bay, from the mouths of the Clan Lord’s own spy masters. Still, he had not previously connected those tales with the face of this man, of his husband.

With the only viable tail in the blood unknown to the family ghosts, there had been no one standing in the way of those horrors. This man, so appropriately titled  _ Suho _ ,  _ protector _ , must have fought like all the demons to keep his own life.

Not his best in the dark, indeed.

The silence between them stretched, long and longer, until Zitao pushed himself upright.

“Husband?” Junmyeon asked, rolling upright, as well. “Are...Husband?”

Zitao treated him to a quick, nervous smile. “I...darkness does not well please me, either,” he lied quietly. “I may as yet have a solution?” Leaning over, so that his face was closer to the ground, he whispered sharply, “Tavi!”

A rustle rippled out from just under the small stand where the Suho’s crown had been set. The darkness moved, a shadow of long, slinking motions, and then a weight was landing at Zitao’s feet. His familiar, less graceful on knee-tented bedding than on land, waddled up his legs to chirr curiously at the mage.

Zitao stroked a hand down the mongoose’s head and long neck. “Hi, Tavi,” he whispered. “Can you get Baekhyunnie for me? Wake him up, if you have to?”

Beside him, Junmyeon stiffened. “Husband?” he asked again. “Zitao?”

Zitao watched Tavi leap down from the bed and flick her way out of the tent. “Lay down, if you please, My Lord,” he whispered, finally turning to look at the other man. “And try to sleep? I know there are rules about who may perform mage-workings before the Suho, but…” He bit his lip, eyes darting away. “Baekhyun has a far defter hand with light spells than I do,” he admitted quietly. “And I’d rather not go setting things on fire, tonight.”

Junmyeon gave him a long, searching look, but slowly let himself recline back into the pillows at the head of the wide bed. His knees lowered, too, and he sighed, closing his eyes. “As you say, husband,” he murmured.

His motion was not a moment too soon; seconds later, there was a brief scratching at the tent flap that served as a door, and then Tavi was darting back into the tent, followed by a partially-uniformed Baekhyun. While the familiar darted forward, back up on to the bed, Baekhyun paused. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, his voice night-quiet and low. “Mage. I am requested?”

“Come in, Baekhyunnie,” Zitao said, waving him forward. “Yes, I sent Tavi after you. I have need of your talents.”

“Zi-Mage?” Baekhyun asked, startled and bristling ever-so. He came fully into the tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him. Not waiting for his eyes to fully adjust, he moved closer to the edge of the bed, where Zitao lay and the Suho pretended to sleep. “Mage, are you well?”

Of course, Zitao realised suddenly. He was concerned that Zitao might need his  _ war mage _ talents. And was still ready to act, if necessary.  _ Oh, Baekhyun, you sweet man _ , he thought. “Not like that, Hyunnie,” he assured him, feeling more than seeing the other man kneel beside him. “No, it’s...it’s really dark, here. I need you to make a light-stone.”

Apparently believing the Suho’s ruse, Baekhyun snorted indelicately, the sound of a friend, more than a servant. “A light-stone. Right. You are capable of summoning fire, are you not, Zitao? Even if you struggle with non-flaming lights?”

“What, and set the bed linens on fire if I need to find a chamber pot? Besides, have you ever tried to pee with one hand occupied with flame? It’s a risky endeavour, Baekhyun.” 

He was pretty sure that the motion from beside him on the bed was laughter. Quiet laughter, at that, as Baekhyun seemed not to notice it.

“Do you have a stone in mind, Tao?” Baekhyun asked. “Or do I need to summon that for you, too?”

Smiling winsomely--he suspected that Baekhyun’s eyes had adjusted to the dark already, and perhaps more than his own had, courtesy of a war-knot his friend wore tied in his hair--Zitao pulled one of the ornate hairpins he’d been wearing from the side table it had been set on. The pin itself was fairly simple, a long rod of dark, carved wood adorned with a large milky quartz bead, but tiny charms had been engraved down the side, wishing luck and safety for its bearer. “This,” he said simply.

Baekhyun took the hairpin, his accuracy confirming Zitao’s suspicions about his sight. He closed his hand around the bead, focusing for a moment, before opening his hand to a spill of warm light. It was as if a tiny sun had been captured inside the quartz, though no heat spilled forth. He offered the hairpin back to Zitao, wooden end first.

“Thank you,” Zitao murmured, holding the hairpin carefully. He reached into the deep well of magic he carried, letting it filter through Tavi into something a human could use safely, then slowly swirled a finger around the glowing bead. He knew that Baekhyun could feel the spill of power from his fingertip, even if he couldn’t see the silver tracery weaving around it the way Zitao could, time locking into a steadily repeating loop around this one small part of the world.

“What on earth are you doing?” Baekhyun breathed, watching Tavi twine against Zitao’s arm, heavy and warm with magic.

“Time enchantment,” Zitao admitted. “It will dim with sunrise, brighten with night. For a very, very long time.” Biting his lip, he broke the draw of power, letting what little remained cupped in his palm spin back down into something wild. He could feel Tavi drawing it back and away, her little furry body humming with energy.

“You,” Baekhyun said quietly, “are completely nuts. And far too talented for this.” He lowered his head, his hands falling to his knees. After a moment, he looked up again. “Do you need anything more? A...a pain spell?” He couldn’t quite hide the concern in his voice.

Beside him, Zitao felt Junmyeon’s whole body tighten up. He nudged his own leg closer, until it pressed against the line of the Suho’s. “No,” he assured both men. “No, he...the Suho was quite gentle. He was...he was kind to me, Baekhyun. This night… It was not a hardship.” Looking down at his own lap, Zitao knew that his cheeks were flaming red, the tint now visible in the sunlight of the hair ornament. “I… You can go, Baekhyun. I thank you for your efforts.”

“As ever,” Baekhyun told him, “I will do whatever it takes to keep you happy and hale, friend. Whatever that might be.” He smiled carefully, then leant forward on his knees and brushed a dry, brotherly kiss across Zitao’s forehead. “Get some sleep, okay, TaoTao? There’s going to be a long journey ahead of us, even after we get to the capital.” Then, rising to his feet, he bowed to his friend and exited the tent.

A long moment of silence stretched between Zitao and Junmyeon lying next to him. Holding the glowing hairpin, Zitao noted that his bed companion was still strangely stiff, as if Baekhyun, a strange war-mage, leaving made the situation even more uncomfortable than having him there. As if Zitao, trained only in domestic and defensive spells, was more frightening than combat-trained, combat-experienced Baekhyun with his mastery over light and flame.

Zitao broke the silence. “Here,” he said, voice hushed so as not to carry. He held the hairpin out to Junmyeon, careful to not let the movement seem threatening in any way. “The...the light spell should last for a while. I’m not sure how long; I haven’t bound my magic to Baekhyun’s like this before.”

The hairpin lit Junmyeon’s face, casting the hollows of his face into dark relief and making his eyes shine as he reached for it. Zitao was a little startled to see the slow, growing smile there. He tried to smile back in return, but wasn’t sure how the movement carried across his face. It felt strange, anyway.

But the Suho--Junmyeon--didn’t let his own smile fall. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Zitao’s extended hand, the one still cradling the warm-glowing pin. “Thank you,” he said, just as quietly. 

Zitao was grateful when he finally pulled his hand away, pin clutched carefully between his delicate fingers. Laying back down beside his now-husband, he let the returning shadowy darkness hide the heat of his blush.

\---

Minseok resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot, waiting at the inner gates of the Holy City for his ruler and childhood companion’s nuptial caravan to arrive. 

It wasn’t that he was concerned for the Suho’s safety; Minseok had been in many of Junmyeon’s early weapons and fighting classes, and he had selected the officers and soldiers that had accompanied the man on the treaty journey.  Junmyeon was a talented fighter, a shrewd swordsman, and responsible enough not to bother with an honourable fight if any of his people were at risk. Minseok himself had made sure that Junmyeon learnt to fight dirty--if his best friend was to be in charge of his own safety, and that of Minseok’s husband, then said friend was going to have every advantage Minseok could stack the deck with.

Which included arming Luhan, if he was completely honest. It was tradition, true, that none of the Suho’s companions carried weapons around him, so that they were reliant on him for protection. But Luhan had found the idea horrifying, at first, his war-trained instincts still keeping him fleet-footed and ready to run. And Minseok, for all that he was raised in a noble house, in the heart of the Holy City itself, had found himself guiding the lithe man through every nasty trick in the book, readying him for the horror of a day when he and the fine wire hidden in the ornate sleeves of his robes, the razor sharp obsidian dagger hidden as part of the necklace he wore every day, and his wits were the only thing between himself and a nasty death.

Luhan had taken to knife fighting like a falcon to flying, and about as dangerously, too. He could free the dagger from his necklace in a fraction of a moment, and tended to be striking as soon as the curved, silver-snugged edge was settled against the arch of his hand. Put a sword in his hand, and he was a whirlwind of edges and fangs. 

Though witchborn, Luhan had no touch of the mage-gift, or at least, not one that even the Holy City’s best mage-sensor could find. There had been whispers, when they’d first started stepping out, that Luhan must have a gift for mindwhispering, that he must be a spy come to steal their secrets on his back. Why else, people had wondered, might a General be seen escorting some changeling castaway from a foreign nation?

But the Inquisitor found nothing, and the mage-sensor found nothing, and even the Suho himself found nothing (save that indeed, Minseok was capable of being as fiercely angry as when they were children.) Luhan carried no mage-gift, and carried no ties to his birthland, not as the Kingdom recognised them.  Madame Zhang had murmured softly of land-ties and blood-rights, when Luhan had been carried in to her, but he had assured her that the demons had been assuaged, and that no retribution was owed for this blood, at least. 

And if he’d risen from the Halls of Healing with sharp eyes and desire to learn to fight, well, who was Minseok to stop him? He had fallen for sloe-eyed Luhan, and had no qualms in helping him train his body for a fight they both knew could come for him any day. Besides, indulging Luhan’s new-found taste for--and startling talent with--bladed weapons had been an appallingly appealing method of courting the man, if Minseok was honest with himself.

Thinking of that, Minseok ran a thumb over the ring he wore on his left middle finger. Luhan’s needle-thin knife, designed for gouging eyes, had been damaged in, of all things, a conflict with a door shortly before Minseok had had to leave for the front one last time, to guard the treaty being signed. He’d taken the ring-blade with him, because the swordmage he most trusted to put an edge on it (and also, perhaps, to spell it against bending) travelled with the troops, too.

He was looking forward to sliding his husband’s true wedding ring back on his hand, truth be told.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry we're back to our regularly-scheduled worldbuilding shenanigans next chapter. alternate titles for this story include "20k of worldbuilding and we haven't even entered a castle" and "hahaha why god why"


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